


Pet Catalogue

by Accidentallytechohazardous



Category: Bleach
Genre: Depression, Heavy Angst, M/M, Self-Esteem, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidentallytechohazardous/pseuds/Accidentallytechohazardous
Summary: A list of things that Renji is and is not. 3 conversations about want. A retrospective map of mistakes. A bargain.-Renji’s eyes fall back on Izuru, and he feels a thin-lipped grin pull at his face. “I want to be a toy.”“That’s worse than being a pet.”“Not for me. I’m tired of being trained. I’m tired of working on myself, fixing myself because of other people’s fuck-ups.” Renji leans in towards Izuru, until he’s sure he can see the right red of his reflection in Izuru’s light eyes. “I wanna be objectified. I wanna be born perfect. I wanna be the product that people obsess over, the fad that never goes out of style. I want people to want me, to love me, and I want to not love them back.”“You’re wrong. You don’t want to be a toy.” Izuru’s voice edges on smugness. Like he’s solved a puzzle. Like he’s picking Renji apart in his mind. “You want to be worshipped. You want to be a shrine.”Renji laughs like it’s a joke, but it isn’t. “There’s nothing holy about me.”
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Kira Izuru, Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Byakuya
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	Pet Catalogue

This is a catalogue of things that Renji is:

  1. A Lieutenant



This is self-explanatory. Isn’t that the first thing that most people think of when they look at Renji? He’s more a lieutenant than a shinigami at this point. He’s more of a soldier than he is someone who saves souls. 

He’s only a lieutenant when it’s convenient, though. When he fails, he’s Renji the Fuck-up. Renji, the one who loses. Renji, the second choice.

It changes when he wins, though. Suddenly he’s Lieutenant Abarai. The Sixth Division is eager to claim his accomplishments, Soul Society will cite themselves as the Thing That Renji Protects. They will make him fight, and lie, and bleed. 

(You like it though, don’t you?)

(It’s nice to be needed, isn’t it?)

It would be flattering to think they needed Renji. To think that because he was strong, that also meant he was special. 

What is the difference between being needed alive and being inconvenient if you die? 

  1. A Hammer



This is like being a lieutenant. It means you are good at hurting things. The difference is that when you are a lieutenant, you have permission to hurt. When you are a hammer, the violence is already inside you.

Renji doesn’t like hurting people, but he doesn’t exactly dislike it either. Is that really better?

It’s a learned response. He isn’t shocked by displays of great violence. The Inuzuri was made of violence. It was a farm of flesh, and what was harvested from those fields were scrawny bodies with skinned knees and hungry eyes. He’s already seen the worst that humanity has to offer, the great tragedy of its indifference. What else could possibly poison him further? 

When he and Rukia were about sixteen (was it more like eighteen? Fourteen? Twelve? Twenty? There are no calendars in the Rukongai. Time doesn’t pass there, it decomposes.) they dug three big holes. They carried the bodies of children there, children the same age as themselves, and put them in the holes and covered them in dirt.

Renji doesn’t remember their names. Why should he? They were just street kids from Inuzuri, they had no family or property. The only living testaments they had were Renji and Rukia. 

He doesn’t know if Rukia remembers their names. He’s scared to ask. 

He feels sad and angry sometimes, and doesn’t know why. Then he thinks about how stupid it is to feel that way, and he decides to stop being sad. 

Why does the Gotei bother obsessing over noble bloodlines, with spoiled kids still clinging to their mothers’ skirts? Why waste time training kids who have something to lose? They should only use orphans like Renji. Kids like Renji are just waiting to be carved into hammers and knives. 

  1. A Pet.



His collar is invisible, but everyone can see it around his throat. He’s property now. 

Being a pet is a step above being a stray. Being a stray is like being borderline invisible; nobody wants to consider your lonely, miserable little existence because everyone is too busy considering their own miserable little existence. They don’t have time to pity you. They don’t have time for you unless you can do something for them. 

Renji thinks that too many people own pieces of him. They’re a little too eager to pick up his leash and lead him around. 

Byakuya owns one piece, the part that controls his career, and that drives Renji’s desire to become stronger and better and more  _ worthy _ . Renji will follow him around like a lost puppy based on the slight chance that one day, maybe, Byakuya will tell him that he’s good enough.

He won’t, though. After all, if Renji is more convenient to Byakuya as a pet, then why would he ever give that up?

Rukia has a piece, too. She didn’t mean to have it, she never intended to have power over Renji. But that was the trajectory of their lives, wasn’t it? Rukia never intended to be a Kuchiki, either. 

Renji knows Rukia better than most people. He knows how misery has made Rukia cold and heavy, and how people mistake that coldness for beauty and maturity. Rukia is the only person who knows how soft she is on the inside, cursing her own body. Every hot drop of blood, every pulse of her boiling heart reminds her how she will never be perfect. She’ll never be free of her regrets.

And Renji knows that he reminds Rukia of those things. Of the gulf between them, and all the ways that she isn’t like normal people. But he follows her anyway. Loyally, doggedly, his leash is tied to the tendons of her wrist. Wherever she goes, he follows. Neither of them have a choice in the matter. 

  
  


* * *

“Hey, Renji?” Rukia asks. “Are you going to fight my brother again?”

It’s raining, and they’re outside. Sitting under a tree, where they’re covered from most of the raindrops, and the constant noise of the rain falling covers their voices. 

It feels these days like they can only talk so freely like this, when they have cover. Otherwise, it’s too embarrassing. Too honest. Everyone has heard Renji and Rukia bicker and play-fight, but no one is ready to hear them share their doubts. 

It’s the anniversary. On this day, five years ago, Rukia was almost executed. 

Renji offered (half-seriously) to bring a cake, but Rukia decided against it. She brought in a thermos instead, and pours the hot liquid into small cups that burn away the chill of a wet and miserable fall.

Renji’s arms are folded over his knees, a mirror to the way Rukia sits across from him. His tea sits untouched, occasionally collecting a loose drop of rain that snakes its way through the leaves overhead. 

“Probably.” He says, without any real commitment. 

Isn’t that what his goal still is, to surpass the captain? Isn’t he married to that goal, with no opportunity or chance for divorce? 

Maybe it’s too late, and he missed his chance when he made ‘peace’ with Byakuya. Maybe by accepting his captain as his superior, he also accepted his own failure. 

“If I did, who would you want to win?” 

Rukia’s fingers worry the smooth clay of her cup. They belonged to Ukitake. She seems to be using a lot of things these days that used to belong to Ukitake. His cups, his desk, his pens. Trying to keep him close and alive.

“I’d be rooting for both of you, of course.”

“Yeah,” Renji says. “But who do you want to  _ win _ ?”

He watches Rukia’s eyes follow the rain, and her teeth dig into her soft lip. She can act stoic around everyone else, an ice queen down to her bones, but she can’t hide from Renji. One way or another, he can sense the pulse of her unhappiness deep in her chest. 

“You.” Rukia finally says after a minute. “I think you’ve earned it.”

She sounds certain, and Renji even believes her. But that moment of hesitation hangs in the air between them, like a third body sitting between them and watching their exchange. An intrusion to their sacred friendship. 

There was another time they talked like this. Where they were alone, and not entirely sure. She was angry with him. 

_ ‘It’s not true! You’re a liar! _ ’ Rukia had screamed at him, her face ignited with an ugly mixture of rage and fear. It always hurt Renji to do that to her.  _ ‘Ichigo would never betray us!’ _

She had been right, of course, and he should have known better. It wasn’t even about him, really. But part of him desperately wanted to take it personally. He wanted to start a fight.

(Hey, would you defend me like that?)

It’s not like Rukia owes him anything. And Renji is happy to do anything for her. They’re nakama. That’s what comes naturally to them. 

(Hey, if I did something you hated, would you still love me?)

He’s not her perfect big brother. And he’s not the boy that she treats like a son. He’s just her friend now. Not real family.

(Hey, am I still like a brother to you?)

There is a word for something like that. For something that is not family, but still loves you unconditionally anyway. His collar tightens around his throat. 

The two of them changed. They didn’t mean to. They didn’t even want to. And now they’re still trying to find their original bodies. Trying to fit into the shape of their souls, before they had been ripped apart and re-stitched. 

* * *

  
  


“I’m going to be heading off to the vice-captains’ meeting today.”

“Yes. I’m aware.” 

Byakuya’s voice is cold as usual, as if nothing happened. His hands robotically straighten a stack of documents on his desk, there’s not even a speck of black ink staining his immaculate white gloves or stuck under his polished nails. Nothing but inherent, divinely-given, noble-bred perfection. 

But no-- something is different this time. Renji cocks his head, and prepares to scratch at that perfect surface until it bleeds. 

“Do you need anything before I go?”

There. Just for a second, Renji saw it.

A flicker of doubt passing through Byakuya’s face. 

Renji stands in front of him, while Byakuya remains seated at his desk and tries to keep the 100 tonnes of his composure balanced. This has never happened before, where Renji is the one making his captain uncomfortable just by being present. 

Never before has Byakuya wanted a reaction, and Renji refused to give it. He refuses to be the one who breaks first. 

Renji can’t help but enjoy it, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s a stolen, guilty pleasure. He shouldn’t have it, but it’s tightly wound in his fist and he won’t let go. 

“No, Renji. You may go.”

He always calls Renji by his given name. He doesn’t do that with anyone other than Rukia. Why does he do that? Is it a mark of ownership? Claiming?

Renji turns to leave, his face to the door. And what’s when Byakuya finally,  _ finally _ bends. 

“About last night…”

What a novelty that uncertain tone is, the slight tilt of his voice. Byakuya has never sounded so unsure. He has never intentionally left space open for Renji to speak, waiting to hear what his brash and infernally talkative lieutenant has to add. 

But Byakuya always wanted Renji to be more obedient, right? To be quiet, and respectful. To defer to whatever Byakuya needed from him, no judgement, no arguments.

“What about last night, Captain?” 

Renji tries to guess what’s going through Byakuya’s head, though he’s never been able to before. Perhaps disappointment. Anger. Guilt. Shame. 

Byakuya feels dirty, and he hates it. He feels dirty because Renji is dirty, and what they did together was dirty. 

There’s something powerful about that. The idea that Renji is so filthy, just touching him made Byakuya hate himself. 

And now, he wants Renji to reassure him. To tell Byakuya that it’s okay, that Renji still admires and respects him, that he’s not dirty like Renji is. 

_ I don’t think we should do that again _ . That would be the kind thing to say. Just cut it off right there, not exactly a clean ending but at least a definitive one there. Renji can admit the problem is him, not Byakuya, and release his captain from his own doubt. 

But he won’t. 

It will be the first and the last time they’ve slept together.

And it will be the first and the last time they talk about it. 

And Byakuya will wonder, forever, why Renji never came crawling back to him. Didn’t  _ need _ him, the way that Renji always starved for Byakuya’s approval before.

It will also be the first time Renji has told himself he didn’t need Byakuya either. He's tired of bending over backwards for a man who could care less about how Renji feels.

“Nothing important.”

_ Yeah, that’s what I thought _ . Renji thinks smugly to himself, and the door closes behind him.

* * *

  
  


“It’s going to rain again.”

Renji watches a cloudless sky pass over him. It’s a pale, washed-out sky with barely any blue. It hurts his eyes to look at for too long, a certain autumnal hostility stinging him. “You sure about that?”

“Positive.” Izuru rolls his shoulder, and a stiff ‘pop’ comes from somewhere in the wiry shape of him buried underneath his robes. “I can feel it. My joint acts up when it’s going to rain.”

“You want me to get you something for the pain?”

“I’m not in pain.”

“But you just said your shoulder is acting up.”

“I can feel it. I’m not in pain.” Izuru says firmly. There’s the barest slice of an edge to his voice. Like it wants to press the idea into Renji’s mind. “I don’t feel pain.”

The Third Division is gloomy. The only pop of color are the manes of orange marigolds in the courtyard, the melancholy quiet only broken by the sound of Izuru’s captain idling his guitar strings down the hall.

Izuru sits so still against the dark wood and the stagnant air that he looks like a portrait. Sometimes he forgets to blink, or to breathe. Sometimes his eyes unfocus, two pieces of blue glass looking somewhere way beyond Renji. 

But sometimes, though, he just looks like himself. Same old Izuru. Always a little bit snarky, always a little bit dramatic, always a little bit hungry for genuine connection. 

Renji watches for those moments, where the two sides of him collide and pass through each other. 

“I don’t feel pain.” Izuru says again. Says it like a new thing, while looking at his hands in his lap. One is pale, ink smudged along the outside of his hand from ink. The other is perfect black, catching the light in a way that skin doesn’t. “It’s strange. It feels very new and strange, but also like something I’m already used to.”

“In what way?” Renji pulls his knee up to his chest. He shouldn’t feel like he’s studying Izuru, like he’s examining an oddity. But Izuru wants someone he can scrape his hard truths up against, and Renji is ever willing to put his body on the line. “How d’you feel?”

Izuru thinks for a moment. “Like a toy. Like they keep pulling me apart and putting me back together. My shape keeps changing, and I’m just existing inside the shell.” 

His hands rise off his lap. Izuru studies the black one while Renji looks at the pale. Izuru’s flesh-and-blood hand is easily smaller than Renji’s own, with thin, bony fingers where Renji’s are thick and strong. 

But both of them have matching scars, thin lines of pink carved into their skin. Both have white raised callouses, 40 years deep. They are, as they always were, opposite and the same.

“I don’t want to be a toy.” Izuru decides. “I want to be a pet.”

“It’s not as much fun as you think.” Renji tells him. “It isn’t enough to just go through the motions and follow orders. Pets are trained. They’re conditioned-- you have to  _ think _ the right things. You have to believe your own lies.”

Izuru’s smile could cut glass. He’s excited to talk taboos. Renji is, too. “I have enough experience in that. And at least a pet is taken care of. They aren’t thrown away when you’re done with them.” 

“Even so, it’s exhausting. I mean, emotionally it’s a lot.” Renji admits, holding his chin on his palm. He’s never said this to anyone, but it feels self-evident. It’s what everyone is already thinking, just the first time on someone’s tongue. “Pets love their masters, even if there's no guarantee that they’ll get loved back. You’re always present, always available for whatever they want. And you have to like it. Even if you hate being a pet, part of you has to like it. That’s what makes it come naturally.”

“What do you  _ want _ to be?”

“I don’t think I  _ can  _ be anything else.” Renji watches clouds darken outside the window. Rain is coming in. “I think I had the chance to change a long time ago. I went from being a stray to being kept. I think that’s all I’m allowed to get.” 

“But if you could be anything,” Izuru pushes. “What would you want to be?”

Renji’s eyes fall back on Izuru, and he feels a thin-lipped grin pull at his face. “I want to be a toy.” 

“That’s worse than being a pet.” 

“Not for me. I’m tired of being trained. I’m tired of working on myself, fixing myself because of other people’s fuck-ups.” Renji leans in towards Izuru, until he’s sure he can see the right red of his reflection in Izuru’s light eyes. “I wanna be objectified. I wanna be born perfect. I wanna be the product that people obsess over, the fad that never goes out of style. I want people to want me, to love me, and I want to not love them back.” 

“You’re wrong. You don’t want to be a toy.” Izuru’s voice edges on smugness. Like he’s solved a puzzle. Like he’s picking Renji apart in his mind. “You want to be worshipped. You want to be a shrine.” 

Renji laughs like it’s a joke, but it isn’t. “There’s nothing holy about me.” 

“No?”

Izuru touches him. His black hand is so cold, Renji almost recoils right away. He doesn’t though-- the texture feels like latex, smooth and slick against his cheek. 

“I don’t think you get to decide that.” Izuru says, and his thumb traces down Renji’s throat. “A toy doesn’t choose how it’s played with. A shrine doesn’t choose how it’s worshipped.” 

  
  


* * *

A catalogue of events: 

1.

Renji is standing underneath the patio that leads to the girls’ dormitories. His school uniform is too small. It’s second-hand, and the hem of his pants is just shy of his ankles. He has acne on his chin. The skin on his brow is itchy, swollen and slightly red under the fresh ink of his tattoos. Overall, he is gruff, awkward, and blotchy. 

Rukia is standing in front of him. The top of her head barely reaches his chest, and her shoulder-length hair is barely brushed free of tangles. 

She is telling him that she’s going to be adopted. She’s going to be a Kuchiki.

Her eyes are shiny. She looks like she’s about to cry. 

Rukia wants him to do something. To beg her to stay with him. To go up to her so-called future ‘brother’ and tell him sorry, but Rukia already has a family. She wants Renji to do  _ anything _ , because right now she is small and scared and she needs him. She needs her big brother. 

Just say it. Say it. 

_ I don’t want you to leave. _

Coward. Mongrel. Worm. Why would she stay for you? 

“They want me to graduate immediately.” Rukia says miserably, her voice choked up.

What would Renji do if their roles were flipped? If he was going to be adopted and she was left behind?

He already knows that would never happen. Nobody would look at Renji and see a son. Would want him. Rukia is smart, and beautiful, and kind, and strong, and fun, and wonderful. She is the daughter families wish they had.

Say it. Fight for her. You always act so tough when the stakes are low. For once, when it actually matters,  _ fight for her _ !

“Rukia, that’s great!” 

Renji gives the fakest smile he’s ever given, and a smile feels cracked and unnatural on his lips. 

“You’re going to be rich! You’ll never have to worry about going hungry again!”

He sounds fucking possessed. Like there’s an alien inside his body, making his mouth move and squeezing this obscene false happiness out of him, not sounding anything like the real him at all.

Rukia sees right through him. She always does. Renji watches a series of emotions pass through her face; shock, guilt, fear, despair, resentment, before finally settling on acceptance. 

She sees Renji’s cowardice. His shame. That he’s a fake person with fake bravery. That he doesn’t love her enough to love himself enough to try. 

“This is the chance of a lifetime! I’m so jealous of you.”

That’s the first thing Renji’s said that’s even a little bit true.

“I see.”

Rukia pries Renji’s fingers off of her shoulder. Like she’s pulling off a scab, every inch of it hurting. She can’t meet his eyes, either because she can’t stand the sight of him or because she won’t let him see the tears clinging to her lashes. 

They have been through hell together. And now Renji is going to watch her walk right out of his life.

How could he do that? How could he just give up? 

How much does he hate himself that he’s letting the only good thing about him leave? 

(Hey, that’s not fair. Everybody makes stupid choices when they’re young. When they’re the most scared and alone. And nobody helps them. Especially not kids like us, nobody teaches us what the right thing is. 

That was a long time ago, anyways. How long? Thirty years? Thirty-five? Long enough to grow up, and admit the mistakes of the past. Long enough to leave behind that miserable, scrawny, ugly kid in the past. That kid is gone now. He’s dead.) 

2.

It is three decades later. 

Rukia looks very similar to how she did before, almost hauntingly so. Still with her round baby face, still with her huge, dark eyes under her tense little eyebrows. Though there’s a newer, mature elegance to her. A fierceness hatching out of her immature gentleness.

She backs away from Renji, her face is shining with fear and anger. A bruise in the shape of a hand is blossoming on her throat, but she’s still brave enough to face down the monster standing before her. 

Unlike Rukia, Renji has changed a lot. He’s strong, and cocky, and mean. Because being strong, cocky, and mean gets you places. It makes you a winner, and Renji is a winner who is going places. Blood drips down Renji’s face, sticking to his skin like a mask. 

(Wait. Stop. Not this one.)

The air reeks with blood. There are two children bleeding on the ground before him, edging closer to death with each passing second. A dark-haired boy who tried to defend Rukia, and the orange-haired boy who Rukia tried to protect. 

Why is he doing this? 

Why is he hurting the woman he loves like a sister?

Why is he raising his sword against two innocent human boys? 

What kind of beast is he?

(Stop it. I don’t want to see this.) 

Two gray eyes drill into his back. Byakuya waits for Renji to open the Senkaimon. To take Rukia to her death, and leave this repulsive scene behind them. 

And Renji does. Because he’s stupid. Because he’s a coward. Because he’s naive enough to trust Byakuya to do the right thing in the end. Renji is okay with Rukia hating him, as long as she is okay in the end. 

Renji is too stuck in his own head to see himself clearly. Maybe it’s the blood in his eyes, maybe it’s the years of being conditioned to do what he’s told. For some reason, the fact that Renji is a piece of this whole process, this arrest, this violence, this injustice, just doesn’t register. 

He is a dog. He follows orders. He does what he’s told. He can buck against the rules, but in the end he’s still on a leash. That’s how he can live with himself. 

(That isn’t me, okay!? Things are different!  _ I’m _ different! It’s  _ not me _ .) 

But it’s a part of you. Forever. 

  
  


3.

It’s dark, but the darkness is a relief. 

The ear-ringing, head-splitting pain that had just been enveloping his body earlier comes to a sudden halt. The hundreds of broken bones and crushed organs inside his wounded frame is put on pause. There’s a big, huge nothing left in its place, and the nothing is an immense relief. 

He is rising. Free-floating in the bubble-like container wrapped around him, some unknown fluid sloshing around with the movement, the pattern of motion is almost soothing. It is the first time in Renji’s life that he is being rocked to sleep. 

Squad Zero is taking him away. He is floating up to the Soul King’s Palace. Renji is going to be healed and bathed and fed and trained by the very best that Soul Society has to offer. Not because he’s earned it. Not because he deserves it more than all his friends and allies bleeding and breaking right now as much as he had. Squad Zero is going to help him because they have use of him. 

(This one wasn’t even my choice.) 

Below him, Momo Hinamori and her captain scramble to organize the survivors and the wounded. Shuuhei Hisagi is yanked out of intensive care and put back on his feet to unlock his bankai in three days. Rangiku Matsumoto struggles to keep her division together as her captain despairs for his stolen power. A hundred lives are extinguished in a single night, including Izuru Kira’s.

But no. Renji is one of the four they choose to save. He is powerful enough. Useful enough. Convenient enough. He already has the shape of a weapon, he only needs to be re-forged and polished. Groomed like a good little attack dog.

(I didn’t have a say in this. I didn’t ask to be helped.) 

But you liked it, didn’t you? You felt special. Worthy. Recognized by Squad Zero for being among the most malleable of your generation. 

You didn’t tell them to send you back. You didn’t beg them to help your friends that were dying hundreds of miles beneath your own two feet. Isn’t that fitting? You were finally above everyone else. What a special boy you are, Abarai Renji. What a useful little thing. Aren’t you proud of yourself?

(It isn’t fair.)

No, it isn’t. 

But you are going to live with it.

* * *

  
  


Renji is fully aware that he doesn’t need to blame other people for what’s wrong with him. He’s perfectly capable of tormenting himself without any outside influence. 

Is that normal, to be your own worst enemy? Is he, like. You know. Is he sick? Should he be on some kind of medication? Is there a chemical algorithm out there that will make Renji act like a regular person for once? 

He has no context for what is ‘healthy’, just various shades of coping mechanisms ranging from good to self-destructive. That’s a consequence of growing up without any functional adults around. You have to just work with some loose pieces to make a functional grown-up, even if some wires don’t quite connect right.

There are a lot of logical explanations for why Renji cares what other people think about him. His career hinges on it, though at times he doesn’t see the point of his career. He has spent his entire life hoping that people will think that he knows what he’s doing. That he’s worth their time. 

He wants attention. He wants to be _ looked at _ . He wants the bright red of his hair to sear eyeballs, the sharp edges of his tattoos to forever be drawn into the memories of people who see him. And maybe that is a kind of immortality. A rank of godhood. Maybe being seen is close enough to being loved. 

Izuru, likewise, wants to be seen. He’s never had power over someone before. He doesn’t have any expectations higher than not being used and abandoned the moment he stops being available. 

And yet, he doesn’t have any fear of Renji abandoning him. Renji hopes that it isn’t because Izuru already anticipates it, and if he does then Renji intends to prove him wrong.

Being with Izuru isn’t like being with Byakuya at all. There’s no restraint. No taboo, like he and Renji are doing something forbidden. If Izuru feels dirty, it isn’t from Renji. 

“Look at me.” Renji says, and he feels the full weight of Izuru’s undivided attention crush the air out of his chest. Izuru’s eyes dissect Renji willingly, searching over the good and bad, the open and the forbidden. 

Renji’s own complexity confuses and frustrates himself, but it seems to amuse Izuru. Perhaps because it’s honest, and Izuru is looking for honest people. Someone who won’t lie for fun, and who can match Izuru’s own brutal objectivity. 

“Hey.” 

“Mmhm?”

“Do you remember when you said I wanted to be a shrine?” 

Renji’s grin is mirrored in Izuru’s skinny smirk. He likes it when Renji pushes. He never wants Renji to be less than he wants to be.

“What about it? Is it time for my prayers?”

“No, I just wondered what kind of shrine I would be,” Renji’s fingers dig into Izuru’s bony waist. He feels the press of hip bones jutting imperfectly but elegantly against the skin. A matchstick boy, made out of softwood and glycerin. “Am I a tomb? Are you here to die in me?”

There’s a silent laugh stuck in Izuru’s throat, and it comes out in heavy-lidded half-moons of his eyes. 

“I’m here to feel alive.” 

Izuru’s fingers like Renji’s hair. They like to pet, and tangle and pull on it. And it’s so different from the way Izuru sat so still in the 3rd division, barely blinking. Like he was cut from marble. Now, every cell of his body seems to itch for movement. 

Maybe it’s the warmth that has stimulated Izuru so much. Thin hands are still cold when they touch Renji’s skin, sapping the warm right out of him and into those icy fingers. It’s not something that Renji finds unpleasant, though. He doesn’t dislike the bumps of gooseflesh that rise up as evidence of the touch. 

“You could be mine, you know.” Izuru’s fingers rake down Renji’s ribs. “You could keep me like a pet. And I could play with you like my favorite toy.” 

“I like that.” Renji’s hands find Izuru’s hands, his fingers squeezing and the scars on their palms kissing. He’s lit from the inside like a holy fire.


End file.
